


tap dancing through a minefield

by the_ragnarok



Series: (and harold) [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Collars, D/s, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pet Play, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Triggers, throwing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: John gets triggered while scening with Zoe. Harold might have a suggestion.





	tap dancing through a minefield

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda hope to write more of this. Usually I put my snippets on tumblr unless I'm sure they're done, but tumblr is being a shit and not showing my fic because the pet play tag is blocked >:( - AO3 to the rescue! <3

The collar around John's neck is unexpectedly heavy. Also unexpected is how much he likes it. He keeps forgetting himself and reaching to touch it. Zoe was very clear that this wasn't about permanent ownership, just play, but it makes John that much happier to be on his knees for her.

Not that he's lacking in incentive to kneel.

Today, though, rather than kneel he's on hands and knees. In addition to the collar he has a pair of fluffy ears on a headband. There's a tail-shaped plug waiting on a chair nearby, enticing. John almost wishes he had a real tail so he could wag it. 

Zoe's reclining on a couch next to him, sipping water from a tall wine glass, which she puts down to pick up a crop. John's eyes follow her hand, hoping it might land on him.

Zoe catches the direction of his look, but mistakes the object. She covers the glass with her hand and waggles a finger. "Ah-ah-ah. Doggies don't drink from glasses."

John's mouth feels dry. He wasn't thirsty before, but now he's feeling the beginning of nausea from dehydration.

No. It can't be dehydration. He's just... he's just....

"Doggies," Zoe indicates the corner, "drink from bowls." She nudges John with her crop.

John walks on hands and knees, and the few steps to the corner feel like miles. He knows he isn't really smelling piss and mildew, it's just his mind playing tricks. He knows the bowl has water in it, nothing bad.

The bowl is stainless steel, plain and serviceable. Clean. It _is_ clean. Zoe wouldn't, Zoe wouldn't--

John stands up and makes it to the trash can before throwing up.

"John?" Zoe sounds alarmed. She's standing next to him, crop forgotten on the couch. "What happened? What do you need?"

John heaves again. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry. Must be something I ate." It's a bald faced lie, and he wonders if Zoe knows. "I need to go."

Zoe doesn't argue. "I'll call you a taxi, and I'll let Harold know I'm expecting to hear when you get home safely, okay?"

John nods, eyes closed, grateful for not having to explain.

His earpiece crackles to life as soon as he's out of Zoe's building. "John? Is everything alright?"

_Fine_ is on the tip of John's tongue. Instead he says, "I threw up."

"Oh dear." There's nothing but concern in Harold's voice. "Are you heading for the library? Please go to the loft. I'll meet you there."

John relays the address to the cab driver and sprawls back in his seat, letting it hold his weight.

"John, I need to know: do you need medical attention?"

Lying in response to such questions used to be habit. Now, the idea of it is distressing. Harold asks for so little from him, and gives him so much. Honesty is something John gives him, is glad to give him. "No." He clears his throat. Despite his embarrassment, he adds, "Flashback."

"Oh." Harold's voice is rich with sympathy. "That must be terrible."

"Eh." John shrugs, even though Harold can't see him. "I've had worse."

"Considering your experiences, that's not saying much," Harold says. "I'll be there before you arrive."

True to his word, Harold is already in the loft when John gets there. The sheets on John's bed have been changed, and for a brief moment John wonders if Harold changed them himself or called in a super discreet and quick housekeeping service. Harold himself is sitting on a chair beside the bed.

"Came to tuck me in?" John murmurs.

"If you like," Harold says. He lifts up the blanket and beckons.

John takes off his shirt and shoes and slides in. He closes his eyes at the first touch of cool sheets to his skin. "Are you going to stay there?" he asks Harold.

"If you like," Harold says once more, with perfect equanimity.

John considers. Then it's his turn to lift the blanket and beckon. "Join me?"

"With pleasure." Harold takes a bit of time to follow up on his words. John keeps his eyes shut, in case Harold prefers to undress, prefers some sort of privacy. He likes the idea of seeing Harold naked, which is a surprise. He likes the idea of Harold vulnerable and close, touchable -- not just someone John can kneel for, but someone John could hold.

Finally, the mattress dips. John turns to face Harold, though his eyes are still closed. He thinks he can feel Harold's warmth, but that might just be his mind playing tricks again.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Harold's voice is quiet enough not to echo in John's large, empty apartment.

John bites down on the irritated urge to say that he did tell Harold about it. He considers the context. "We were doing pet play. I was a dog. Zoe said I couldn't drink water from a glass, I had to drink from a bowl. I--" his voice breaks off.

"I see," Harold says, after a moment's silence. "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"

John makes a noise of pure frustration. "If you can, you should tell my therapist. I think she'd like that."

A hesitant silent, and then Harold asks, "May I put a hand on you?"

"Sure." Even if John didn't think it would feel good from a sensory standpoint, it would feel good to let Harold do what he liked, a compensation of sorts for how shitty this night went. 

It does feel good, the warmth seeping into John's muscles. He sags further into the bed, muscles loosening. 

His tongue also loosens. "Zoe's not gonna want to do this again." His voice comes out more melancholy than he intended.

"Well, I should hope she wouldn't want to trigger you," Harold says. "That said, there might be a workaround, if you know what it is you liked and what triggered you exactly."

John laughs, a short bitter sound. "Fuck if I know. It's like tap dancing in a minefield."

Harold pets him with slow, gentle strokes. "It's possible to work it out via trial and error, if you're willing to risk the possibility of error."

Sure John is. That's not the point. "Zoe wouldn't."

"I don't believe," Harold says archly, "that I said anything about Ms. Morgan."

John's eyes snap open. There's light coming in through the ridiculously large windows, and he can see Harold's expression perfectly well: determined, and - to John's surprise - intent the way Harold gets when he runs into a particularly tricky firewall. 

"What do you want to try?" John says, heart beating fast with fragile hope. 

"I have a few ideas." Harold pats him. "But not tonight. Brush your teeth and rest."

Before John can catch himself, he asks, "Will you stay?"

Maybe it's the light, but Harold's expression seems very soft when he says, "Of course."


End file.
